


What's Unsaid

by disorient_me



Category: Pacific Rim (2013)
Genre: Gen, Gen Fic, One-Shot, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-16
Updated: 2015-08-16
Packaged: 2018-04-14 22:54:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4583241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/disorient_me/pseuds/disorient_me
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, words fail, so actions will just have to do.  Sometimes, those actions come later than they should.</p><p>Or, Chuck Hansen has no patience or time for birthdays.  Not like they matter when even his own father can't be bothered to remember.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What's Unsaid

**Author's Note:**

> Belated birthday fic for Chuck Hansen. Because I just can't quit you, babe, like a bad habit.

Somewhere in the distance, someone’s got the radio up too loud. The sound carries, even though the chaotic Jaeger bay, and Chuck grimaces. He’s heard the song before—it’s not uncommon for the techs to have the radio on—but tonight, it bothers him. The pop station is far too cheerful and upbeat for this time of night, but it’s not his turn to pick the channel.

The crew is pretty used to having him here. No one bothers him, and recently, they’ve even stopped checking every screw he touches right behind him. All work is double- and triple-checked, of course, but Chuck’s is no longer immediately checked before those other checks. They know he knows what he’s doing, and it’s about damn time. He’s been coming into the bays for years now, studying blueprints and design specs when he can get his hands on them, and he’s pretty damn sharp. Always had a penchant for taking things apart, even as a tyke—his alarm clock had been the first of many victims, and he’d gotten as good at piecing them together as he had pulling them apart.

At least when he is in the Bays, he is helping, he is doing some good. He isn’t just underfoot, he is as handy with a screwdriver as he is with a soldering iron or torch. Chuck hates sitting in the dorms, doing nothing and slowly going crazy while the War rages on. He itches to be out there, to _do_ something. Until he can get in the Conn-Pod himself, though, this will do. He takes pride in doing his part; it soothes the burning in his veins, the ghosts at the edges of his mind.

_I’ll do it. Just wait, I’ll be the best pilot running. I’ll make sure—_

_Snikt._ Finally, the piece he’s working on clicks home, bringing Chuck’s mind back to the task at hand. With one hand, he begins bolting the plate back in. His other hand holds the flashlight at the right angle, and everything else fades away. Chuck’s always liked working with his hands; he takes simple pleasure in knowing what he’s doing and doing it _right_ , and being able to see tangible results of his work isn’t half-bad, either.

Wriggling on his back, Chuck slides over several inches to the next task on his docket. He removes the plate and sets to work. The pop music refuses to fade into the background, and sets his teeth on edge. Some of the other technicians are bickering amongst each other, and someone is singing along—thank fuck they’re at least on-key, or Chuck might have broken his self-imposed silence.

The crew has left him alone tonight, thankfully enough. They’re well aware of the date, and they all know better than to draw attention. There are more important things to do than to muse over some pointless square on a calendar, after all. Chuck stopped paying attention to his birthday, because it’s hard to get hurt when someone forgets their son’s birthday if the son doesn’t care ~~anymore~~ either.

Chuck swears when his grip on his work-light slips, sending the light off-course. He fixes it, exhaling sharply in disgust at himself. Not like it’s any use getting all worked up, yeah? Herc’s off doing whatever it is he does when he’s not in a Jaeger or sleeping, which is to say that Chuck has no fucking idea. Sure as fuck wasn’t spending time with his son, after all.

It’d been a nice enough day, on its own. The crew had chipped in for a little bit of cake, and Chuck didn’t complain. There are few enough reasons to celebrate a lot of the time, and Chuck knows better than to take away that little bit of morale. In turn, they hadn’t swarmed him or made a huge fuss; it was nice. It had been enough to ease the sick drop in the pit of his stomach and the flickers of memories at the edges of his mind.

He’s angry, of course. How can Herc steal a bird to come all the way to rescue his son, forsaking his _wife,_ only to forget that same son even _exists_? It blows Chuck’s mind, and rage threatens to swallow him whole. He needs the distraction of the Jaeger, because he’s not sure what he would do without something to focus on, only that it wouldn’t be good. Rage and re-doubled guilt are a toxic mix at the best of times; add in Chuck’s temper and even he knows when to step away.

(Doesn’t mean he didn’t dump several buckets of seawater over Herc’s bunk first, though).

He’s on the fourth juncture on his docket when he feels the vibrations in the grating beneath him. Someone’s climbing the ladder to his rig, and he frowns. No one should be checking in on him for another hour for a shift-change, and he’s quite sure he’ll wave them off and keep going. He finishes up, pointedly not paying attention to the person pulling themselves up onto his platform.

He glances over—then freezes when he catches sight of familiar boots. Thankfully, the armor plating on the Jaeger’s calf segment is swung out, shielding Chuck for the time being. He knows those boots; worn in and beaten up, they sit in the corner by the door when his father actually graces their quarters with his presence when he knows Chuck’s there.

Chuck makes Herc wait. The man knows he knows he’s there—neither of them are stupid or have much patience for self-deception. They’re quite good at ignoring each other, when they aren’t arguing. Chuck doesn’t feel much like arguing tonight. Can’t his father just let him have this one thing? He’s already made it quite clear he had better, more important things to do today, and Chuck just doesn’t want to have this argument.

“Gonna spend all night up here?” Herc asks gruffly. Chuck grunts noncommittally. Silence, then a heavy breath. Chuck thinks he sounds frustrated now as Herc shifts his weight on his feet. Wouldn’t have even been noticeable, had his boots not been right by Chuck’s head; Herc’s military, of course, he doesn’t show weakness like that unless someone knows where to look. “Oi. Chuck. Come out here.”

“Got work I’m doing, don’t I?” He returns shortly. Herc shifts again, then actually snakes a foot under the extended plating to nudge Chuck.

“Come out here, now,” Herc says. It’s no longer a request, per se, and Chuck debates the merits of pissing Herc off and making him fight for it. His lips purse in thought, then he shoves himself out from under the armor plate. He blinks at the change in light, scowling up at Herc as he scrambles to his feet. He’s closing in on his old man’s height, and relishes in the fact that he won’t be looking _up_ at him for much longer.

“Yeah?” He asks, mouth twisted down.

“Thought you’d take the night off,” Herc says stiffly, and Chuck’s shoulders go back.

“Jaeger’s not gonna fix itself, is it?” He retorts. Herc’s jaw clenches, and Chuck’s chin rises just a bit. He’s not going to back down. It doesn’t matter what his old man expected from him, not when he couldn’t even be bothered to make time for him anyway.

“Shift’s up, anyways,” Herc says after a long, fraught moment. “C’mon. Let’s call it a night.”

Chuck frowns, fully ready to lash out—and then Roth’s head pops up over the edge of the platform from the ladder. Jim Roth’s his relief, and he’s humming to the radio, oblivious to the tension right in front of him. Chuck glowers, but lets it go. He turns his glare to the side, out across the bay.

“Oi, Kid, been making much progress?” Roth asks cheerfully. He blinks when he notices Herc, then glances at Chuck.

“Not a kid,” Chuck mutters, and Ryan shrugs.

“You old enough for a drink yet?” He returns. Chuck scowls, and Roth laughs. “Didn’ think so. Go on, I’ll finish up. You find anything?”

“Integrity of the synapse system is still at 75%,” Chuck reports. “Wiring still checks out, too. Didn’t check the stress points on the plating overlap yet, though.”

“Got it,” Roth notes. There’s a strange look on Herc’s face, something that Chuck can’t quite name. It’s gone quickly enough, though, and Roth claps Chuck on the shoulder as he passes. Herc says nothing as Chuck makes notes on his paperwork, signing off on what he did. He stands aside, motioning Chuck ahead as they descend the ladder.

With quick, efficient strides, Chuck is on the ground. Before his father even hits the ground, he’s ditched his harness and hard hat back in the racks along with the tool bag. The tools are community kit, but the well-worn gloves are his own. He jams them into his back pocket, heading down the hall.

Great. Just another night, jammed into an active-Ranger’s quarters, stuck in with a man who can’t even look at him half the time. At least down in the Bays he’d been getting work done. Now Herc will probably expect him to go to sleep, as if he’s an ankle-biter up past his bedtime. The thought has Chuck shaking his head, lips pressing into a thin, white line.

He jams the access code into the reader, storming into their quarters. Herc is still several paces behind, which is well enough. Chuck doesn’t care to go walking side-by-side with the man, not when they don’t have to for whatever puff piece the PPDC is rolling out for the media. They like to pretend that the Hansens are a nice, tidy little family unit. They apparently don’t notice the way Herc never has time for his own spawn.

Chuck strides over to his corner of the room. Scott’s not in the room, and Chuck guesses he’s out enjoying his down-time. Herc enters a moment later, while Chuck’s throwing his gloves down on his little desk. Grease streaks across some loose papers, and he frowns in frustration.

“They got you doing quite a bit of work down there, yeah?” Herc asks from behind him. Chuck exhales through his nose, straining not to fly off the handle.

“Yeah,” he says succinctly.

“You know quite a bit about the Jaegers,” Herc states. Chuck just dares him to criticize him, but Herc clears his throat. He approaches from behind, then clears his throat again, prompting Chuck to turn. He freezes when he notices something on his bed mid-turn, a box. Where the hell had that come from?

“Thought you’d be back earlier,” Herc shrugs. His blue eyes are painfully earnest, and it hurts to look at him directly, like the sun or something, only it twists something in Chuck’s chest, between his lungs.

“What’s that?” He asks suspiciously, and Herc gestures toward the box. When Chuck doesn’t move, Herc shrugs again.

Chuck can’t remember the last time he was so completely thrown off. He feels surreal as he reaches out and picks the box up. Herc doesn’t say anything, and Chuck opens the box. It’s a little heavier than he thought, and now he’s curious.

The box has a veritable hoard of sweets and treats—most of them candies that Chuck hasn’t had in years. Sugary sweet things have fallen by the wayside in light of the Kaiju, and some of these are damn near impossible to find. Tim Tams, Cherry Ripe, Violet Crumble, hard candies, all of his old favorites, and Chuck looks up sharply. Herc’s not looking at him, and Chuck rifles through the box.

Beneath the candies are a brand new pair of work gloves— _nice_ gloves. They’re high-quality, study gloves that Chuck’s coveted for a while now, and he touches them with a fingertip. With the gloves are a set of tools and his own bag. The tools and belt are also of the highest quality, and Chuck sort of can’t breathe for a second

“Not much, but it’s somethin’,” Herc mutters awkwardly. Something bright and sharp heats Chuck’s chest at the words, and he ducks his chin a little, glancing away. He guesses he can let the old man get away with it, just this once, and swallows his words.

“I thought you’d be back earlier,” Herc repeats. “Thought we’d sit down, have dinner or somethin’.”

Chuck can’t speak. Part of him wants to lash out, to remind his father that he didn’t exactly go out of his way to say anything earlier. Hell, his father hadn’t even been in Australia last year, so—

But this is unexpected. Chuck has reminded himself so much that it doesn’t matter, that his birthday isn’t important compared to fighting kaiju and saving the world. So what if his father forgot? It didn’t matter, right? And Chuck just doesn’t know how to deal with this tight, aching feeling in his chest, or the way he can’t seem to catch his breath. It’s so stupid; why on earth would he cry over a box of bloody candies?

He forces himself to steady, then sets the box down on the bed. Behind him, he can practically _feel_ Herc’s discomfort. Normally, he would want to revel in it, to rub it in his face. Today—tonight, whatever—he thinks that maybe he can suck it up. He reaches into the box, pulls out a purple wrapped bar. He hasn’t had one of these in _years,_ not since he was very little. He very purposely hasn’t thought about it in a long time, but he thinks he remembers bright sunlight, a playground, and a shared candy bar, hidden from his mother before dinner.

Chuck holds the chocolate out toward Herc, a silent offer. Herc pauses—then smiles. A genuine smile, not that fake one for the press, or the tired one when he doesn’t want to argue with Chuck in front of others. It’s been a really long time since Chuck’s seen that smile, not that he’s been paying attention.

“Happy birthday, son.”

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be a quick little ficlet, 500 words or so. Somehow... we ended up here, 2300 words later. *sigh* All the words and feels came with this one, so most of my day has gone into this. As always, feedback and concrit are so amazing and help encourage me to write more/faster :)


End file.
